The rabbit is loose!

I wrongly assumed a case of lice would be the worst of our day. A few times a year, my school invites white coated nurses into our school to carefully comb through every student’s hair—braided, curly, buzzed, or knotty, no coif avoids the nit-picking sessions. The kids love the process, and drool a little as the women comb through their hair inch by inch. Yesterday, upon hearing from a parent volunteer that the Licenders were speedier than usual, my class squeezed into an earlier time slot and I was hopeful that we could quickly filter in, filter out, unscathed by eggs, nits, or creepy-crawlers.

The kids who had been checked and cleared stood along the wall, chatting noisily with each other while I made small talk with some of the parents. I knew their volume was rising and that I should probably dampen the racket with a threat of no choice time, when all of a sudden two teachers burst through their classroom doors. Oh boy, I’m in trouble, I thought, assuming my animated, loud third graders had disrupted the teaching going on around us.

“Bring all the students in here. Now! Get them all into my room!” one of the teachers exclaimed. “The rabbit is out of its cage. Get all the students inside! The rabbit is out of its cage.”

I started looking around my feet and down the hallway. “Did one of them lose their class pet,” I wondered. Not having much time to think clearly, I herded my kids standing against the wall and those in the middle of being checked for lice, and corralled them inside the teacher’s classroom. Luckily her own students were in music at the time so the small room accommodated all of us just fine--the kids, nurse, parents, and nearby teachers. You know, just the normal reaction to a free wielding animal! My kids encircled me, asking whose pet escaped, what color rabbit it was, and why we had to lock ourselves in Ms. Thompson’s classroom if it was just a little rabbit. Good points all around!

“Don’t worry, the school just takes this type of thing very seriously. We’re fine, we’re fine. Think of this as a little, unexpected free time. Enjoy yourselves!” I didn’t know what else to say, since I was just as confused by the drastic measures being taken to protect us from a furry friend. But I shrugged and smiled, doing my best to remain somewhat in control during this lice-gone-wrong moment.

I turned to Ms. Thompson and asked, “What’s going on? How did you know a rabbit got loose?”

“The assistant principal got on the loudspeaker and said, ‘Attention teachers and students: The rabbit is loose. I repeat, the rabbit is loose.’ You know what that means, right?”

“That there’s a rabbit loose?”

“No! It’s our school code for ‘a dangerous person is in our school!’ An unidentified person in the building and could be dangerous. You’re so funny! You thought there was an actual rabbit?”

Yes, obviously I did. Call me literal. “Oh, wow! So someone is loose? Are we safe in here?” I worried.

“I hope so!” she said.

I gazed at my innocent, playful children skipping around the room, hovering around picture books, and whispering secrets in each other’s ears. The weight of my responsibility to protect and care for these children blanketed my own anxiety about the ‘loose rabbit’ and I knew that whatever happened, I was there for them. However, why our school has such a bizarre code for such a serious crisis was beyond me.

“Let’s sit in a circle and play a game,” I said, congregating the twenty-five eight year olds. “Let’s play Follow the Leader.” Shrieks of joy rang through the room, and they squeezed into the tight ring of bodies, hoping to find a spot next to their current BFF. As soon as the game was about to start, a voice boomed through the loudspeaker on the wall.

“Attention teachers and students. Sorry for this second interruption, but I’m happy to announce that the rabbit is safely tucked inside its cozy little cage. I repeat, the rabbit is back in its cage. Thank you for your patience.”

My students let out an audible, collective sigh, relieved the class pet was out of harm’s way but disappointed their impromptu fun time was now over. They arranged themselves in two neat rows, Ms. Thompson unlocked the door, and we thanked her for letting us wait in her room while the search and rescue commenced outside. “I’m so happy the bunny’s alright,” one of my little friends confessed.

“Me too!” I said, and I gave her a little hug. The kids instantly divided and assembled themselves into their pre-checked, being-checked, and post-checked groups. Many of them shared how relieved they were that the tiny pet was resting comfortably in its cage, and I was relieved that my tiny peeps were comfortably at ease back in the hallways of our questionably safe building.

As soon as the nurses and kiddies and parents were back into the smooth swing of licending, Ms. Thompson tugged at my arm and pulled me aside. “Guess what I just heard? Turns out the rabbit was a Mystery Reader!"

"What?!"

"He was in the boy’s bathroom, wearing a cape and a mask, when a boy came into the bathroom and screamed, ran down to the main office, and yelled that a strange man in a mask was using the bathroom! Can you believe it? A parent,” she shook her head and laughed. “Better safe than sorry, I guess.”

So, our unidentified and dangerous stranger was a parent in disguise. Bad move using the boy’s bathroom, and an even worse move telling the boy not to say anything! But apparently, even the most well-intentioned masked avenger can shut an entire elementary school down for half an hour.

When all was combed and done, the children were deloused and only mildly distressed. What started as a quick trip to the first floor nurse’s station, turned into a would-be terror threat. I learned our school code for ‘Save yourselves!’ and I think the kids learned a lot, too—the next time they hear a wooly bunny has escaped from its cage, the best thing to do is lock themselves in the nearest room, stay calm, and wait until the coast is clear. That shouldn’t require too much therapy!

The Girl With the Pearl Earring

Already late for work, I decided I had time for a small coffee and egg white veggie flatbread from Dunkin’ Donuts. I couldn’t quite hear the clerk when she asked me if I cared for sugar, and so I yanked off my earmuffs to have a better listen. Moments after taking my first sip of my morning Joe, I felt that odd sensation of the backing to my earring fall against my neck into my collar. It was as strange a feeling as when I lose a tooth in a nightmare, which is a common theme in my dreams that I know has something to do with a felt loss of power. And that’s exactly what was so strikingly odd about sensing my gold fastener tumble down—something so securely fastened isn’t supposed to come off or fall out!

I dropped my head to my shoulder in an attempt to catch the fallen bauble, and grabbed at my ear, feeling around for a back-less pearl. There was nothing there! Just a naked ear! At that point I clutched my breakfast sandwich for dear life (since dropping that too would really cause the morning to go to shit) and began hunching over while walking in slow circles around the register.

“Can I help you, miss?” the confused employee asked.

“I’ve lost my earring! It’s a pearl. I don’t see it though,” I replied, and then began disrobing in front of the cranky commuters. I knew it had to be in my jacket or purse or glove or even in one of my clogs! At least I hoped it was, because if I couldn’t find it there, I had no time to retrace my steps. The subway rumbled underground and reminded me I needed to cut this morning escapade short.

“If we find it we’ll hold onto it for you. Call back later, miss.”

“Thank you! Thank you so much! I will!” I said, even though I knew I wouldn’t. I have worn those pearl earrings everyday for the past few maybe five or six years. I sleep in them, shower in them, and go out in them. I even forget they’re there! Except when they’re not…

I knew that it was a lost cause. Suddenly, I recalled all the various nooks and crannies in the form of grates and potholes I encounter on my walk from the apartment to the station. The earring was gone, and I was bummed. But I was also seriously late for work.

Later that day I began searching online for a new set of studs, and was shocked to learn just how inexpensive they actually are! Relieved and feeling at ease, I then began to wonder why pearl earrings have such an uptight, elitist reputation? Why hate on such cheap little cuties? While on my Internet navigation, I also remembered feeling teased (note: I cannot remember who actually accosted me but I know it happened) by people in college for wearing pearl earrings everyday—and that was way before my current cardigan paired with pearl earrings uniform, which I do see as being a bit preppy. But again, why hate on such a cheap little cutie?

A little research later, and I recalled the reason for the pearl’s snobby rep. In their early days of popularity, pearls had to be made the old fashioned way—one grain of sand and one day at a time. Yet now, real pearls are made instantly and very inexpensively, diluting the market with millions of perfect, iridescent orbs. Almost anyone can access a pair of earrings for a good cost, and she needn’t be Cleopatra or Queen Elizabeth. So, the pearl’s reputation hasn’t changed with modern times and despite advances in mass production, the pearl earring is still an elusive item.

I then thought about why I have stuck to the rounded gems all these years, why I hadn’t mixed up my ear jewelry on a more regular basis. Truth is, pearl earrings to me are the new black. They go with everything by blending seamlessly into the wearer’s ensemble. I like how they delicately dot my ears and don’t hurt the sides of my head when I’m sleeping.

My research and reflections haven’t led to anything awe-inspiring or revolutionary, but losing my earring did force me to take a moment’s pause. Maybe I lost my earring for a reason—maybe the universe is hinting that I could use dose of mystery, like Vermeer’s girl with the lone pearl. So if you see me walking down the street with one pearl in, one pearl out, don’t worry… I’m just trying out my new look: Intrigue (with a dash of crazy.)

Next stop... Plateau?

I try to avoid crying under the covers. It reminds me so much of high school, back when stalking the boy of my eye would inevitably cause me to “coincidentally bump into” said crush and the apple of his eye. I was never a boy’s apple as a teenager. Rather, I was more like the odd star fruit—so delicious and sweet inside but painfully difficult to peel. And, being the prude and high-maintenance star fruit I was, I spent many a night crying under the covers, desperately wanting to be an apple, or even a slutty banana that strips down with one tug at the top.

That level of uncorkable crying is what I experienced last night, while sobbing into my Shabby Chic duvet and begging my husband to turn off the lights because the tears made me as blind and sensitive as a baby hamster. “Please turn off,” sob, sob, “the lamp.” Sniffle, sniffle. I know he was trying to help me by forcing me into the light, but I wanted to cry privately and quietly, like I did in high school, and try not to indulge the anxiety spouting out by way of tears and snot.

“Why are you upset?”

“I’m just so uncomfortable! I don’t want to go back to school. I want to stay home, with you—and my mom and sister. I don’t like going back.”

“I hear ya! But I thought you said school was good today?” Curtis offered, obviously confused, and uncomfortable himself by my sudden emotional collapse.

“I did have a good day. The kids were fine. Great even. I don’t know. I’m just feeling anxious and I’m sure it’s just nerves and post-holiday shit, but I’m really upset.” Obviously.

“OK…It’s OK to cry.”

“I know it’s OK to cry,” and upon spicing up my response with a pinch of sass, knowing that the last thing I needed was to spark a marital fight, I curled into his armpit and said, “I just hate not feeling right, you know?”

“I know.”

“I mean, am I going to teach forever? It’s already been three years.”

“Not even—2 ½, Jo. You’re not used to doing one thing for a long time. And that’s not even that long, but it’s just starting to feel easier, which is what’s supposed to happen after you’ve done it a few times. You don’t know how to just be.”

The truth is, I do know how to be—but being for me is synonymous with moving. This is the case for most people. You start kindergarten, lunchbox in hand, letter on napkin from mom, excited to take this official first step. No more pretend school, this is the real deal. But before the paste has dried on your macaroni collage, pig-tailed Jessica swipes your last piece of dry pasta, slaps it on her paper, and proclaims her carbo-loaded creation done. The teacher then gingerly hangs up Jessica’s sticky mess and says, “Oh, you’re an artist! Good job. Now you’re ready for the clay table.” Having earned her ticket to first grade, Jessica learned a very valuable lesson: The end justifies the means.

And the cycle continues, unbroken, allowing you to rise up in the ranks from freshman to upperclassman, doing what you have to do to get to the next level and reach the golden ring. Then, one day, graduate school is over, dust collects on your backpack and you’re supposed to have found this magical destination you’ve worked your whole life to find. You’ve grabbed the golden ring… Now what?

Yes, you'll probably receive a promotion or two, but that’s just so you can make more money doing more of the same. Promotions seem to odd to me, because usually they just plop more responsibility on your plate with a little more money, but when are your supposed to enjoy the financial gain when you’re stretched thinner than ever carrying out your new found responsibilities? If you ask me, it doesn’t add up.

As a teacher there are many routes I can take from here. I can go back for my administrative license and become a principal… But then I’m really out of the classroom, which is my favorite part about being a teacher-- having a community of little friends. I can become a consultant and teach teachers how to improve their craft… But then I’m not only out of the classroom but I’m traveling from school to school, and I am not a fan of being away from home, obviously. I can earn my doctorate and teach at a university… But after watching my husband complete his doctoral program I’m just about turned off to the whole idea of post-graduate work of any kind.

I’m not sure what my professional future holds. All I can do for now is go to work, bond with my little pupils, and read up on the latest and best teaching practices. And who knows, maybe one day I’ll graduate from third grade—if only I can just stop eating the paste.

Sobering Moment

When I tell people I'm not drinking this month, that I've temporarily given it up, I'm asked one of two questions. 1: "Did you join AA or something?" 2: "Are you pregnant?!" And frankly, I'm more flustered by the latter question and instantly find myself saying, "Oh God no, I'm not pregnant!" while sucking in my stomach. Even scarier than people scanning my midsection for a telltale bump is the idea that either way, alcoholic or preggers, the assumption is I've lost control of my own body.

My husband's friends quit smoking and drinking each January, ushering in a sober new year. And this December, for whatever reason, the notion seemed genius to me! I too was going to go wine and martini free! Tired of waking up hung over after four cocktails the night before, realizing my tolerance has plummeted to a new low, I knew this would be an interesting endeavor.

On New Year's Eve I watched what I drank-- I watched it go right down my throat. I stuck to champagne and I sipped water whenever I felt my blood alcohol level tip uncomfortably toward drunk. It seemed like I was doing alright... until I accosted the MTA teller when I couldn't hear him through the glass window and dramatically tossed each of my used Metrocards into the sky, one by one, as I yelled my discontents through the corridors of the subway. My husband stood on the other side of the turnstile, embarrassed, waiting for my ticker tape parade of flying Metrocards to end. The new year couldn't come fast enough.

Yes, I was ashamed of my behavior and awoke to the new year ready for strong coffee and a fresh start. But do one's actions on the most debauchery laden night of the year constitute a problem with alcohol? Doesn't everyone go all out, complete with hats, champagne, and noisemakers, waking up the next morning vowing never to drink again? Well, I'm pretty sure a lot of people do. But telling my friends and family, very casually at that, about my drinking ban has revealed the uncomfortable sting of a stigma. It's awkward for me to say I'm not drinking right now, especially when people say, "Oh, I don't drink enough to have to quit it. That wouldn't really be something I would have to do." Let me decode that for you: You obviously drink a lot more than me, so much so that you really need to dry out, but since I am an infrequent, one-beer-on-Friday drinker, I am better and more responsible than you. OK, that might not be what people mean, but that's how I take their personal justifications. I drink enough where this week there were three social engagements during which I could have had a glass of wine, and where those in my company did have a glass (or two), and that is three moments I have ordered a diet coke instead. I'm not exactly sure why I am on this sober bender, but here I am. Teetotaler. And even though I am counting down the days until February 1, and I'm not sure what I'm trying to prove to myself, I do know my smugness is on the rise-- a side effect of restraint. Out with one vice, in with another. Isn't that the truth?!

Dream Deferred

Christmas and New Year's is a lonely time to be single. It is even lonelier if you just recently broke up with somebody. Or didn’t break up with him, per se, but just let the relationship fade away into oblivion. Saving him the trouble of breaking up with you.

I met my perfect man a few days after my birthday. Just when I least expected it. I was a few weeks into my surgery rotation, when I looked my least attractive due to lack of sleep and the required uniform of ill-fitting scrubs. Yet despite my puffy eyes and blue jumpsuit, I met the man of my dreams. He was tall and very handsome, with dark hair and brown eyes lined by glossy black eyelashes. He had a great sense of humor, and could do funny impressions of people (a talent I really enjoy because I happen to be quite the mimic myself ahem). And an added bonus was that he was Cuban. Sexy, latin, and a revolutionary. (I felt slightly let down when I found out that he had become a US citizen, but let’s face it, I was still high.)

Carlos was one of the other medical students who joined our surgery rotation. I pretty much just looked at him as a classmate the first few days. I always feel pretty asexual in the hospital, and I usually don’t think much of people hitting on me, but for some reason, Carlos caught my eye after a while. He would flirt with me and give me winks and whatnot, but the tipping point was when he stood up for this pathetic, nerdy student in my class, when he was being yelled at by one of the surgeons. I love a valiant man! I was hooked.

Carlos and I were soon talking every day, and texting like love-crazed high schoolers every night. We would sneak away for off-campus lunches, and make out in the stairwells of County General. He was smart, funny, and kind. He showered me with compliments. There was one little fly in the ointment, however. Ok, maybe not a fly. More like an elephant. Carlos had a girlfriend. A girlfriend of four years, actually. I shooed her away in my mind. She’s far away, in Indiana! And Carlos lives in NY now, only leaving to visit his family in Miami! He’s mine. Besides, she can’t possibly be as cute as me. (I am slightly embarrassed to have thought this, but if you can’t tell the truth in a blog, when can you tell it?)

On our first date, after making out in the middle of the street in SoHo, I asked Carlos if he still had his girlfriend. “No, no, I took care of it.” Took care of it? I winced at the idea of some poor girl getting a phone call from her perfect man, breaking it off… But I quickly shook my head of the thought. We went to a bar for some drinks, and it was literally within minutes when the second bomb dropped.

For some reason, religion came up. “Are you Catholic?” Carlos asked me.

“Yes,” I replied in my most angelic way, only then to give a wink and say, “but I’m a very bad Catholic girl.” Rather than a normal response, which I suppose would be to smirk back at me, and imagine a very naughty rendezvous involving spanking and the like, Carlos instead said this: “I used to be Catholic, but now I’m a Christian.” My stomach turned to lead, knowing what was coming.

“What do you mean, Christian?”

“I’m a Born-again Christian, I’ve accepted Jesus Christ as my personal savior.”

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My heart screamed out. My brain told me to run, run far away. Shush! I silenced myself. How could you run from the perfect man?!

What does this Christian thing mean anyway, I wondered to myself. My uncle was born-again, and years ago, he sent the entire family what is now known as “the hell letter”—a letter informing us that if we did not accept Jesus as our savior, then we would burn in a fiery hell for eternity. My mom told her brother if he ever tried a stunt like that again, she would never speak to him again. Later, a roommate in college, who turned out to be a dear friend, educated us. Although she believed we would not be saved on Judgment Day, she still had close friends outside her religion. Comforting. The only other experience I have with this particular sect is the memory of waking up early one day as a child and stumbling upon some weird cult church show while flipping channels on the television. The priest was yelling in tongues and striking people down—even children! I was terrified. (Carlos informed me recently that this is entirely different—Evangelical Christian—but terrifying just the same.)

“Maybe since his religion was repressed in Cuba, this is his way of expressing his beliefs,” my mom offered some words of comfort. Romantic, but unlikely. I took his Christianity and shoved it far in the back of my mind, hoping that if I ignored the issue, it would go away.

Days later, and essentially no dinner dates later, we slept together. It was way too early, but I let him pressure me into it. I was VERY pleased to find out that he was not at ALL very Christian in bed! Just a blur of Spanish and acrobatics. As we lay in bliss, Carlos actually said, “I was just thinking of how attractive our children would be.” HIGHHH!!!!

We continued like this, sneaking off in the hospital for a make-out shesh, making crazy Latin love at night, texting and calling each other all the time. Despite my visions of beautiful half Cuban, half Nordic children, I did not feel intimate with Carlos. It was forced. I didn’t feel like he was my boyfriend at all. But I so wanted to feel that way. Intimacy takes time, I knew this. But did Carlos?

Meanwhile, the church questions were becoming more and more frequent.

“Did you go to church today?” He asked me every Sunday.

“No! You know I never go, its sooo boring!” I would giggle every time. He would laugh too. I decided it would not be the best time to tell him the funny story about how Brian Wilder and I accidentally got wasted off the consecrated wine during the Christmas Eve mass in high school…

Sooner than later, despite my best effort to be charming and adorable, things started to change. Texts got less flirty. Phone calls slowed, and then stopped. I asked Carlos, carefully, what was going on.

“Cosita, you’re perfect. I think we have something really good going on here, and I just want to take things slow. You have to understand, I just got out of a four year relationship.”

Wait. A. Second. Mister! My heart screamed out, but my face stayed calm. He was the one who pursued me! He was the one who pressured me into sleeping together, into calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend, and who showed pictures of me to his family!! “I totally understand,” I smiled.

That was the truth. I understood all too well. Years ago, I had a long term boyfriend. We dated for years, and I was in love with him. I built dreams around him. Living in a house by the sea, babies in white hats playing on the beach…

But I broke my own heart when I realized we would never work out together, and I broke up with him. I rebounded into a whirlwind affair with someone completely different—loud, dark, outspoken and passionate. I was high off Johnny. But after a few weeks, the ghost of my old love haunted me. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. And he became untouchable; no man could ever compare to him.

Was I becoming to Carlos what Johnny had become to me? A fun, fiery affair, but just a careless rebound?

The last time I saw Carlos was the night of his birthday. We went out with his friends in the city, and had a fantastic time. We both had too much to drink, but what’s too much if you’re having fun, right?! But that night, in bed, came the third bomb.

After the usual imitation-porn-movie series of moves, came the question. Actually, more like a statement. “I want to put my ___ in your____.”

Let’s just let that hang in midair, because that’s basically how I felt. I did my best to express that I wasn’t into that (especially after only dating for like a month and a half, are you crazy??!!)

“Well, we don’t have to…tonight,” was his Christian response. I’ll leave out the gorey details, but let me say for documenting purposes that he tried this a few more times, and when he dropped me off the next morning, I was left feeling very uncomfortable about the whole situation.

Carlos headed down to Miami that day. We spoke a few times afterwards, only because I initiated. A few days before Christmas, I stopped calling. It’s his turn, I figured. I still wanted him to be enamored with me, like he was in the beginning. I was dying for him to miss me, to surprise me and come up for New Years Eve. But day by aching day, I never heard from him. My dreams I had just begin to build around him faded away. Dried up, like a raisin in the sun. And just like that, I was on my own again.

It is not Carlos who I miss, but the idea of him. I miss the man I created, who was basically a skeleton of Carlos, once you stripped away the religious zealot, the cheating boyfriend, and the wannabe porn star. So, not Carlos at all really. After a few days of grieving, drinking and eating cookies, (the latter two which I would do anyway during the holidays) I will be my laughing, cheerful self once again. Besides, I already met another tall, handsome guy who just might be the one.

Un clavo saca a otro clavo.

December 21

Snow fell in clumps. It looked like confetti, like fake snow. “It’s too heavy to be real,” I thought. My chin rested in my palms, elbows on a cushiony pillow, and stomach on the rug. As The Santa Clause boomed on the TV, Alex and Michelle giggled, but Becca and I didn’t. We just existed there, looking at the fake snow. “They don’t get it,” I thought. “How can they? It’s not their family.”

Becca was quiet as the other girls laughed again. “I wonder if Becca wants to stay too? Probably.” Nancy carried milk and graham crackers into the TV room. “Wow. We are never allowed to eat outside of the kitchen,” Michelle chirped. Becca turned her head and just stared at me, whispering a million wishes to me in one glance.

“Want anything else, girls?” Nancy asked. She was looking at Becca and me. Her eyes were wider than usual and her eyebrows wrinkled. She knelt down and rubbed Becca’s back.

“We’re okay,” I answered for the both of us.

“Yea?”

“Yea. Have you heard from our mom yet?”

“No, sweetie. She hasn’t called yet.”

“Okay.”

Alex and Michelle chuckled at the movie, but Becca and I were silent. “I remember the movie being much funnier,” I mused to myself. The room was warm, warm enough that I could take off the blanket on my back. I sat up, crossed my legs, and reached for a glass of milk. “The graham crackers look good,” I said, but I didn’t eat any. I took another sip of milk, put the glass down, then returned to lying on my stomach, legs stretched out behind me.

Creeeaaak. The front door bellowed. Becca and I looked at each other but didn’t move. Nancy came in a moment later. “Your mom’s here. She’s in the living room.” The knot in my chest that had been there all day suddenly strangled my lungs. I was nauseated. My heart flung against my ribs in a rhythmic beat of panic, quicker and quicker. The thumping started travelling up my throat. Becca and I lifted ourselves from the floor and casually went to meet our mom. She stood there, stuffed like a teddy bear in her winter jacket and hat and scarf, her cheeks bright pink and blotchy, scratched by the wind. “It must be really cold outside,” I realized, so detached that I felt like I was floating. She smiled and scrunched up her face. “That’s what Nancy did before,” I thought as I looked at Mom.

“Come here girls. Let’s sit down.” Mom had only been away for a night, but in that time the world had changed. She put her arms around us and walked over to the sofa. We all sat down and she slowly pulled off her hat, placed it on her lap and tugged at a loose woolen thread. I looked out the window, shocked at how high the snow had piled. I knew what she was about to say, and I wanted to just sit there in silence, realizing it was all over but not hearing her words confirm it.

“Girls, Daddy passed away a few hours ago.” I sat there. My eyes started to burn and I saw Mom's chin start to dimple. I hated seeing her cry. “Uncle Rick and Aunt Gail were there with us. I was right next to him. Aunt Gail told us something funny that happened to her, and we all laughed. Daddy smiled and then he let go. He’s out of pain now, girls.” I wiped my damp face. “He loved you so much.” She paused. I looked up and realized she couldn’t speak because her face was full of tears and sadness. “You’re all he was talking about.” We three sat there, three who didn't know how to be anything other than four.

Just then I realized Uncle Rick was in the room, still wearing his jacket and slouched against the wall with this thumb and forefinger in his eyes.

“Do you girls want to walk home with me?” Mom asked. It was the oddest question. Wouldn't we all want to cling to one another and never be apart again? Wouldn't we all want to go home to our own beds, no more hospitals for Mom or neighbor's futons for us, and figure out how not to crumble to pieces? But at the time the question made sense to us. What exactly do we do now?

“Umm,” we looked at each other. “I wanna stay here tonight.”

“Me too,” Becca breathed.

“Are you sure?” Mom asked.

I had no idea what I wanted to do. “Umm, yea.”

“Ok. I’ll be at home whenever you want to come back. I love you girls so much. I’m so sorry,” Mom croaked while squeezing us tightly. I couldn’t feel anything.

Becca and I stood up, walked past Nancy and Michael, and sunk back into the TV room. Alex pressed the rewind button and I watched the gray lines on the screen. She pressed play and we continued watching the scene we stopped at minutes before.

A few seconds passed before Becca and I turned to each other.

“Wanna go home?” I asked her. I started to feel the weight of my body. I was so tired.

“Yes.” she nodded.

We stood up. “Bye,” I said to Alex and Michelle.

“We’re so sorry,” they whispered.

“Uh-huh,” I uttered.

Becca and I walked out of the room and saw Nancy and Michael sitting at the dining room table. “We’re gonna go home.”

“I’ll walk you home, girls.” Michael smiled faintly with his red, sunken eyes. Nancy stood up and gave me a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry, Jo,” she said. Her chest vibrated against my head while she spoke. “We’re always here for you. Always.”

I slid my arms into my snow jacket. It was bulkier than I remembered. I wrapped my scarf closely around my neck and zipped my coat up halfway. “What’s the point,” I thought. “It’s only a few houses away. How cold can it be?”

We left through the front door and marched into a sheet of snow. It fell madly from the sky. I closed my eyes and tilted my head down, walking right behind Michael. Wind slapped my face like sandpaper. Becca followed next to me. The streetlights were caked with snow and the light was gray, the street so quiet. I couldn’t even hear my own footsteps.

We got to our front door, opened it, and began shedding our layers of down and nylon. Mom was there, waiting for our return. The Christmas tree lit up the living room and housed piles of presents. There were hundreds of them. I looked at the tags and quickly realized they were from almost everyone we knew. Over the past month people had left presents, casseroles, cookies, and anything else that might distract us from the fact that Dad now lived in the hospital. Seeing all the gifts sparkle under the blinking bulbs seemed like a huge waste.

I stared at the tree and watched the light show dance on the walls and stairway. The Christmas tree flickered, completely unaware of what had just happened to Dad.

***

I remembered when Dad brought in last year’s tree. He had it on his broad shoulders, carrying it through the door as if he held a prize from a hunting trip. He propped the tree up in the same corner as always, and then secured it into the base. We watched him artfully loosen the branches from the netting and fluff the tree into an amazing sight. As he pulled down one of the branches he whispered, “Ah. Look…what…we…” and continued to reach deep into the thicket, “have… here.” He slowly pulled his arm out of the pine needles and held a perfect little bird’s nest in his hand. It was the size of his wide palm. Becca and I shrieked and scurried over to put our faces up close to the discovered treasure.

“Wow! That’s so cool!” I said marvelled. We touched the little branches that comprised the delicate nest. Mom ran into the room and then she too hovered over the finding. “What a cool bonus to getting the tree,” I thought.

“Did you know that finding a bird’s nest in your Christmas tree means you’ll have good luck for the whole year?” Dad said, in his soft voice. He gave us a smile and opened his eyes wide. I felt the luck already.

***

It is almost fourteen years since that cold night in December and I am now twenty-five. During the time my father was losing his life to cancer, I did not know how my mother, sister, and I would soldier on, but I knew we had to.

It was appropriate for us that he died on the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, because we were ready to find a sign of light. It was also an appropriate time for him, being in sync with the natural world, that he should leave this earth as the seasons quietly switched acts. December will always be a difficult time for me and each year I continue to feel a sadness wash over me as the first day of winter approaches, but with each year comes more successes, more promise for the future. Although it would be impossible to retrace the steps we took from that day forward, it is those small steps, those choices, those moments of strength that have allowed not the tragedy to define our family, but rather, our endurance and love instead.

Phoenix or bust

As much as I think I’m trying to be financially responsible, I’m not. Responsible adults pay their gas bills and have functioning stoves. They also receive letters saying their credit limit has increased and that they just earned extra sky miles. I don’t get those letters. I get dangerously thin envelopes with the words Final Notice stamped across the front, letters written in all caps, forcing my eyes to read the words I’ve been ignoring for many weeks, words like Due to accruing late payments and Your credit rating has been lowered. In fact, not too long ago, I opened a letter from The Gap and wrongly assumed it was a bill for yellow corduroys I purchased for a modernized Snow White costume. But no, the letter was even less forgiving than tight yellow pants—it informed me that my credit limit had been reduced to $100. I wanted to yell, “That’s ridiculous! One hundred dollars doesn’t even pay for a chunky knit sweater these days!” Confused and ashamed, my vision inevitably focused on the familiar words that read Due to your recent late payments on other credit cards… Ah, my injured relationship with the bank had been leaked! In the world of payee-payer relationships, I am not redeeming myself with good behavior, and I’m looking at fifteen to life, with only some ill-fitting cords to keep me warm.

Recently, throwing caution to the wind, I bought lunch near my school on the Upper West Side. After much shoving around by high schoolers and fellow lunch goers, I decided on split pea soup and a veggie wrap. I chucked my debit card across the counter, trying to get out of there as soon as possible.

“Sorry, ma’am. It’s declined,” the cashier said, handing me the curled receipt inked with the D-word. “Do you have another card?”

“First of all, ‘ma’am’ isn’t necessary. And please try that card again,” I smiled uncomfortably.

The man rolled his eyes, as if to say, You’re making my life more difficult than those high schoolers behind you trying to steal cans of soda. But he ran the card, and again shoved the receipt reading declined in my face.

“Do you have another card or what? There’s people waiting.”

“Um, yea, hold on,” I said, fumbling through my wallet, “try this one.” I tossed him my sparkly for-emergency-purchases-only credit card.

“Ma’am, card’s no good. Do you have anything else?”

Glowing all shades red, I shook my head, handed the food back over the counter and mouthed, “I’m sorry.” I dialed my bank immediately. When a man picked up, I spurted, “My debit card is no good. I tried to buy lunch and they said no! It’s been declined. Why?”

“OK, Miss (read: Crazy). Hold on…Well, it seems like we’ve put a hold on the card, ma’am.”

Yes, so that it wouldn’t go up in flames the next time I swiped it at Loehmann’s, I thought to myself.

“What’s your social security number, ma’am?” he asked, then followed up with, “And the state in which you received your social security card, ma’am?” The onslaught of ma’ams combined with starvation was all too much. Not only was I being called old and told I may not eat, but my card was being put in a time out. The only thing that could have made the moment worse was if the banker’s next question was, “And when was the last time you actually went to the gym?”

Informing the banker I was born and bred in New York, he said, “So, you didn’t purchase anything in a Walmart in Phoenix, Arizona yesterday?”

“Um, no. I didn’t.”

“Well, it looks like someone has been charging things to your account. At WalMart and Safeway.”

“Oh my goodness! That’s terrifying!”

“Yes, ma’am, it is. We’re gonna go ahead and cancel this card for you, and I’d recommend you close this account, just to be safe.”

“But I’m leaving for Ireland in two days! How fast can I figure all this out?”

He cleared his throat as if to say, You have $200 in your account, you seem to go out for dinner quite a lot, but yet you’re going to Ireland. Don’t choke on your whiskey.

He was right. Who do I think I am? I had two overdraft fees this month and The Gap won’t even allow me any more dark-washed denim. I realize the card cancellation is unrelated to my recklessness—since Fake Me was unaware of who she had swindled while buying armfuls of junk at Walmart—but maybe it takes a scammer in Phoenix to stop the Real Me from committing any more financial harm.

So after work, I darted to my nearest bank to open up a new account and withdraw some cash for my trip. A new checking account and a few twenties in hand, I filtered onto the rush hour subway, desperate for a seat and some sympathy. I squeezed in between a gaggle of high school girls, a sprinkling of sad nine-to-fivers and two moms with strollers. Holding onto my wallet and handrail, both for dear life, I couldn’t help but overhear a mother and teenage daughter next to me.

Daughter: Mom, who are you giving the Tiffany’s gift card to?

Mom: Not sure, probably Kirsten. I still don’t know who to give that Cartier caviar set to though. The only people I’ve seen serve it recently are Barb and Doug. So maybe I’ll give it to them.

OK, so apparently not everyone buckles down when the economy bites the dust. It’s a harsh world out there, and getting harsher—just ask Fake Me, who required my buck for her shopping spree! I know it’s going to be a steep and messy climb out of this hole I’m in, full of ample time in last season’s clothing to think about my sinful ways. I’ll start repenting as soon as my plane takes off for Ireland.